


The Legless Dancer

by Katbelle



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Daddy Issues, Dancing, Dancing as a Metaphor for Death, Dancing as a metaphor for fighting, Family Issues, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Implied Relationships, Legends, Major Character Undeath, Minor Character Death, Non-Chronological, Non-Linear Narrative, Trust Issues, all the issues all the way, as much as possible anyway, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8894947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/pseuds/Katbelle
Summary: Dancing is in her blood the same way fighting is.
  "Has Star told you the story of the Legless Dancer?" Stick asks suddenly, as if able to read her thoughts. Elektra has often wondered if he can. Maybe that's his gift, the way that disappearing is hers.

  She shakes her head. "Would you tell me?"

  Stick grins. "Let's make a deal," he proposes. "You beat me, fair and square, and I tell you the story."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [offensiveagentpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offensiveagentpie/gifts).



> First of all: merry winter solstice, my dear Recipient! I hope this holiday season will be joyful to you and your family!
> 
> Secondly, as the resident master at taking a prompt and twisting it out of shape: forgive me. I swear this had more to do with actual dancing when I started writing it, but it got away from me. I am writing you a second treat-y surprise fill, and I hope I'll be able to publish it before New Year's. For now enjoy this one. And, again, a happy winter solstice.

**The Legless Dancer**

_Where dance is, there is the devil._  
John Chrysostom

 

**1.**

She remembers the smell of chicken.

 

**25.**

She's always known.

While that might not be exactly accurate – there are a lot of things she didn't know then and still doesn't know now – there _is_ the one thing that she's always known. For as long as she remembers, far longer than anyone knows or realised, far longer than Stick and an eternity longer than Matthew, who seems to refuse to accept that, she's known. She's known about the darkness, the darkness outside and the darkness within her. The overwhelming force that sometimes feels like it's going to rip her apart, to break out of her and leave her empty and bleeding and dead. The force that Stick always told her to curb and tap into when it's necessary, the force that Matthew first willfully ignored and then couldn't look past, the force that gets everyone around her killed.

She smiles.

"Do you want the bonds to be tighter?"

Stick snorts. "It's been a long time since you've tied me last, Ellie."

"Tighter it is."

 

**2.**

She remembers the smell of chicken.

Of course, it's not the only thing she remembers. 

 

**3.**

In her earliest complete memory, she is six years old. 

 

**4.**

It's summer, it's hot and the air is thick and heavy. She's living on the streets, on the outskirts of a city. Her days are filled with hiding from the sun, spent rummaging in bins behind restaurants in search of food, any food. Anything at all to quell the hunger, anything that would keep her from having to search for help, too. Anything that would keep her from going back.

She can't go back.

She's not sure where "back" is, exactly. She has some vague recollection of a place. Not warm, but not cold either. There was food, but there were also people. Food was good, people were not. People talked.

Elektra wrinkles her nose. Of course people talked, that's what people _do_. Silly statement. Silly thought.

What she _meant_ to think was that people talked about _her_. In hushed voices, half in awe, half in fear. No, mostly in fear. The awed one was there from time to time, rarely on the whole. But – when he was there, there was chocolate. He always brought her chocolate and one of the _sābanto_ would always leave it in her room.

Her room was dark, but she didn't mind. It was warm and there was food, even if the people talked.

About her. Talked about her.

There was more than that. More than the warmth and the food and the talking people and the dark room. She remembers metal. She thinks there might have been chains, but isn't sure.

Elektra closes the lid of the bin and gives up on this particular restaurant. Over her three months here she's learnt that leftover fish isn't something she should eat. It's raw and it makes her stomach turn.

That must be the fault of all her mother in her blood.

That's another thing, that the people used to talk about back there. Her. When she wouldn't do anything, when she would just sit in her dark dark room for days, in complete silence. Her. A crossbred half- _gaijin_ child, a _kuso yarō_ , a disappointment, no heir of the demon, no daughter of darkness. Her mother has tainted her, Elektra has come to know.

It stands to reason, then, that it's her mother's fault that she can't eat raw fish.

Elektra sniffs, allowing herself a minute of self-pity. She sniffs and prepares for the one tear that'll escape her eye and roll down her cheek. But it never comes because she sniffs and a smell catches her attention.

She can smell a chicken being fried nearby.

 

**26.**

She feels a steady pulse of satisfaction course through her as she finishes his bonds. Perhaps she didn't get the chance to kill him, the lying, duplicitous bastard that he is. Perhaps not yet. Or perhaps he was right and Matthew was right, and killing him would destroy her. Perhaps Matthew was right too, in that she was better than this. Better than him.

Ha. Better than Stick. When she's spent half of her life trying to be just like him.

"Good job, back there," Stick says.

She isn't sure what he means. She isn't sure if he's lying, joking, neither or both. She used to know how to read him, but that somehow got lost in time and space as well. "No thanks to you."

Matthew is out. There's a pharmacy near his flat, she knows, and he went out to get some medicinals, for her and Stick both. Perhaps even for himself, but Elektra doubts that.

Stick nods. "No," he admits, to her surprise, voice gentle in a way she hasn't heard since she was twelve, "no thanks to me."

She's wanted to hear that tone since she was twelve, too. It's a weakness. She's full of them, one way or another, her emotions are a weakness and her darkness is a weakness and her body is weak too. Maybe her mother is to be faulted for that as well.

"Glad we agree on something," she forces out in a leveled tone. She can't show weakness. She can't afford any, not now, when everything is falling apart and she is barely keeping herself from following suit.

"You did good, _koibito_." Stick's voice gets even softer and gentler, one who didn't know any better would even say _loving_. And, damn. She can't. Can't afford that, can't afford a weakness, can't afford a distraction, and. Stick doesn't love. And she does know better. "I'm p--"

" _No_." She leaps from where she was perched on the armrest of Matthew's sofa. No. "You don't get to say that and you don't get to call me that."

"Ellie."

"You ordered me _dead_ ," she reminds him. "You don't get to call me that. Ever."

Stick takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. It might be because he's in pain and that does tug at the weak strands of her heart. Despite everything, she doesn't want him hurt or dead. Not really. Or. It might be because he's trying to appear long-suffering in her presence, tries to show how much of his patience she's trying, and because he knows that'll annoy her. "I didn't _order_ anything. The Chaste--"

" _You_ are the Chaste! And you sent a man to kill me!"

"I did send Jacques," Stick admits after a moment of silence. Elektra wishes she had a knife at hand, being better be damned. "A useless buffoon. I knew you'd be able to take him down."

That makes her blink. "You wanted _him_ dead?" That... that wouldn't make any of it better, per se, and would definitely make little difference to Matthew's saintly morals, but would make her feel less betrayed. It wouldn't have been the first time Stick lied to his own people, it wouldn't even have been the first time Stick lied to his own people to protect her. And it wouldn't have been the first time he used her to get rid of someone who was in his way.

Stick smiles, that ironic half-smile of his that telegraphs to everyone around that Stick knows more than he's willing to share. She knows she has the same smile in her repertoire, the one that Matthew and Franklin have always found annoying. She knows, because she's spent a whole year of her childhood in front of a mirror, practicing, copying Stick's mannerism.

Poor little Ellie with her abandonment issues and her need to be loved.

Stick shakes his head. "I wanted to give you a fighting chance to live."

 

**5.**

He finds her cowering under a car.

"Hey, _shōjo_ ," the man says. He's crouching by the car and his voice is sweet, tone soft, as if he were trying to gentle a spooked animal. She must seem like a spooked animal to him, small, dirty, underfed. A neglected pet that was thrown out onto the streets. "Hey. It's alright, _shōjo_. They're gone. You can leave."

Elektra shivers under the car and doesn't move.

She followed the smell of the chicken to a nearby park. She should have known that entering was a bad idea from the start – there were paper lanterns everywhere, balloons, serpentines. Stands littered with games and toys, stands with cucumbers on stick, with drinks, stands with fried chicken. People were moving all around her, walking past and never once glancing her way. The atmosphere was festive, laughter surrounded her and drowned even the sound of her stomach protesting the lack of food.

She should have left then and there. She wasn't safe. Not after--not after back there.

But. The crowd is big during _matsuri_ , she reasoned. No one would notice one little girl snatching a cucumber from a stand, or picking someone's fallen chicken bit. It would be fine, Elektra told herself.

And it would have been. If only someone hadn't caught her stealing. If only that person hadn't raised their voice. If only the masked ones hadn't appeared.

It was good, being a dirty little girl. Dirty little girls could disappear in the chaos of screaming and fighting and blood. Elektra was good at making herself disappear. It was her secret weapon: when everything else failed, she just faded into the background, unnoticed, unmissed, unknown. She could make herself disappear, so she did. She shook off the hand that was once attached to a man who accused her of stealing and dove under the table of his food stand. She jumped away from a masked one advancing and bolted towards one of the side streets connected to the park square. She threw herself onto her knees and crawled under a nearby car. She was small enough to fit and she doubted anyone will bother looking. She was just a poor dirty little girl. She was of no use and no concern to anyone.

She just had to wait there until it was all over.

And then it was.

And an old man with a gentle voice was telling her to get out.

"No," Elektra whispers, the first word she's spoken out loud in over two weeks. Alone on the streets, there's no one to talk to.

The old man sighs. He moves from crouching to kneeling next to the car, and then he drops his weigh, flat-out on the dirty road. He props his head on his arm and scoots closer to her, his head almost sticking under the car. He doesn't quite look at her, but it's close. Elektra shivers again. She doesn't like being scrutinised.

"You can get out, _shōjo_ ," the old man says, extending a hand. "It's safe now. And I know where we can get something to eat."

It's obviously a ploy to get her out from under the car. And the man... His tone is soft and gentle, but his voice sounds wrong, like he isn't used to speaking this way, like the man wasn't made for speaking this way. He doesn't look like he could be with the masked ones, at least, which is always a plus. Whoever they were after, she doubts they're alive. If they were, why would the man bother with her?

"I'm not a little girl," is what Elektra tells him when she finally decides to grace him with an answer to his gentling. She is a little girl, of course. She knows that. But she'll be damned if she appears to be less to this man. She's not just a little girl. She's a little girl who _survives_.

The man snorts. "I don't know, you look rather little to me. And," he gives her a half-smile that he manages to pack full of superiority, "only little girls hide under cars like this. You're not a little girl? Fine. Get your ass out and then we'll see."

With the last sentence his voice loses all the gentleness and becomes gruff. It suits him much more.

Elektra says nothing. She crawls from under the car and stands up, drawing straight to appear as tall as possible. She barely reaches the man's waist, but what she lacks in height, she makes up for in sheer force of spirit. She cranes her head up and stares right into the man's unfocused blue eyes. She juts her chin out, a picture of defiance, and silently dares him to call her a little girl again.

"Does the not-little girl have a name?" he asks.

"Yes." Elektra crosses her arms over her chest. "My name is Elektra."

 

**27.**

"A fighting chance to live," Elektra repeats, incredulous.

Stick cocks his head to the side, communicating his assent. "You're a danger, Ellie," he says. "The Chaste wanted you dead, I was to make that happen, so I sent Jacques."

"And that's your story."

"It is a rather simple one."

Elektra huffs. "Yeah. It is. Not sure if I should believe it. Jacques wasn't as easy to kill as you think."

"Your lack of success with a half-wit idiot is no fault of mine. You've got sloppy around Matty, _koibito_. And that is your own damn fault."

"Oh, don't give me that. _He_ is your fault." Elektra points a finger at Stick and wiggles it. Even though she knows that he can't see it. "You trained him, just like me. And then you abandoned him, _just like me_. And then you sent _me_ for him. What did you think was going to happen?"

"Do you want an honest answer or a one that you'd like to hear?"

Presenting it as a choice is progress in itself, Elektra thinks. "Honest," she says. "For once. Might be a nice change of routine."

"I thought what happened was exactly the thing that was going to happen."

 

**6.**

"The nature of martial arts is a lot like dancing," Stick tells her on her first day of training.

She's seven now, as far as she knows. She's been at the temple for over six months now, being nursed back to health, learning and studying. English is sometimes causing her trouble, but Stick's insistence to only communicate in it helps. Writing is fun, much more fun than some other things she's being taught. Meditation, for example. Bores her to tears.

People look at her with suspicion, but suspicion is better than half-awe, half-fear, and anyway, Stick's is the only opinion that matters to her. And he seems to like her.

"You have to become aware of your opponent," Stick carries on. They're on the training mat, circling each other leisurely. "You have to _feel_ them, be in tune with them. When you reach that point, you'll be able to predict their movements. Your movements will become more fluid, and your fight will cease looking like a fight. It'll be a dance of life and death."

"Danse macabre," Elektra supplies. Stick stops and raises a brow at her. Elektra tries to fight the blush that threatens its way up her cheeks. "Something that Star told me about in lesson yesterday."

Stick hums. "Did he now?" he asks and begins his slow walk around the mat. Elektra jumps into motion after him. "Perhaps I should tell Star to focus more on important things and less on metaphorical crap."

"I like our lessons," Elektra says. She does like them, but can't bring herself to defend Star's curriculum choices. Perhaps Stick is right. More writing and more English, less stories.

"Has Star told you the story of the Legless Dancer?" Stick asks suddenly, as if able to read her thoughts. Elektra has often wondered if he can. Maybe that's his gift, the way that disappearing is hers.

She shakes her head. "Would you tell me?"

Stick grins. "Let's make a deal," he proposes. "You beat me, fair and square, and I tell you the story."

Elektra smiles in return. It's become a reflexive response, one she cannot help. "Okay."

"Very well." Stick nods and strikes out at her, catching her off guard. "Defend yourself, Ellie!" 

 

**7.**

She's almost nine when she finally stands in front of the door of Stick's room and knocks. A "come in!" gives her permission to enter, which she eagerly does. For once she's grateful for her _sensei_ 's blindness; he might be able to hear her heart beating faster than usual, but he cannot see the anxious expression on her swollen face.

Their training was long and rough today, and Elektra knows her face will sport an assortment of colours come tomorrow. But. She won. Fair and square.

"Ellie," Stick says, clearly surprised. She doesn't come to his door often. Even in the beginning, when he first brought her, still a dirty and underfed little girl, she never sought him out. Even when her nightmares tried to overwhelm her. Even when she wanted to.

Especially when she wanted to.

"Is something wrong?" Stick asks after she's failed to state her case. She shakes her head, suddenly unable to speak. Maybe it was a bad idea. Maybe he doesn't remember their deal. " _Koibito_?"

"I came for my story," she finally manages to force out.

Stick frowns for a moment, taken aback, before he raises his brows and silently offers her a seat. She plants herself on the offered chair and folds her hands in her lap.

"A story," Stick repeats slowly. A feeling of cold dread settles over her. It's been almost two years. He must have forgotten. It was a very bad idea. "Of the Legless Dancer, if memory serves," Stick carries on, oblivious to Elektra's sudden burst of panic. "Well. You did win, if not injury-free."

"'We should never expect to leave a fight unscratched'," Elektra parrots a piece of advice Star's given her before her first proper sparring session.

"That we shouldn't," Stick assents with a small smile. "The Legless Dancer. Well. They say..."

 

**8.**

_They say that in times before human memory, before most of creation came into existence, there lived amongst the _kami_ a dancer whose skill had no match in all the _shinkai_. Akuma, the Father of All Demons, once he learnt of that _kami_ 's existence, desired to bring him to his court so that the dancer would entertain Akuma's courtiers and Akuma himself. And bring the dancer he did – Akuma sent out his most trusted warriors who brought the dancer to Akuma's palace. The dancer's skill intoxicated all the demons and brought them joy and power never before known in their realm. _

_However soon the dancer felt longing for his own land and his family, which he was forced to leave behind. The dancer knew that the Demon King would never let him go, so he fled the palace in secret._

_The Father of All Demons, once he learnt of this escape, ordered his warriors to pursue and capture the dancer, and to cut his legs off so that he who refused the Demon King's graces would not be able to share his gift with anyone else. The Demon King's_ kamaitachi ran in pursuit and eventually caught up with the escaped dancer.

 _However, the dancer's fame did not fade. His name was not forgotten and for many years still his skills were lauded across all realms. Akuma, believing that his original orders were not carried out, decided to hunt down and kill the dancer himself. The Father of All Demons brought the wrath of the black sky to the dancer's home and killed his whole family. But upon entering the dancer's chambers he saw not the famed_ kami _himself, but merely a cripple lying on the bed, the only dance he was capable of the dance of his fingers as he brought a paper doll to life and made it dance._

_The legend says that, before he was slain by the Demon King's hand, the dancer said: "Take my life, then, Beast, since you failed to take anything else from me."_

 

**9.**

"The Demon King failed," Stick finishes in a quiet voice, "because no one can take who we are and what we love from us."

"Mhm," Elektra hums. She has her head pillowed on her arms and is half-lying across Stick's desk, but. She feels content. She feels warm and safe in a way she cannot remember ever feeling. "Thank you, _otōsan_."

She thinks Stick runs a hand through her hair. "Sleep, Ellie."

 

**28.**

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said. I hoped this would be the outcome. Both times, actually." 

Elektra shakes her head. You've got to be kidding. "You sent me to bring him into the Chaste. He was my mission."

"And you were his," Stick counters. "Not that Matty knew that. He never was the brightest bulb. So easy to manipulate. The more you tell him not to do something, that something is a helpless cause that ought to be abandoned, the more determined he becomes. Like clockwork."

Elektra closes her eyes. Her hand finds itself near her face almost without her conscious knowledge and soon she is pinching the bridge of her nose. This is too much. Too fucking much, too ridiculous, too upsetting the order of things as she knows it. She wishes Stick would just shut up and that Matthew would come back. Is there a queue in that fucking pharmacy?

Stick moves in his chair, testing the bonds. They'll hold, she knows. He taught her how to make them. "I told you once that one day someone would come for you. I promised to make that as far-off as possible. I hoped..." Stick licks his lips. His face is still bloody. Elektra has to avert her gaze. "I hoped he would take you out of the game for good."

A lying deceitful bastard. "I didn't want to be taken out of the game," she hisses. "I wanted to be in the game _with you_. That was all I ever wanted and you _left me_ , you left me with the Natchioses and then found yourself Matthew and you forgot all about me. As I knew you would."

"Why do you think I cut his training short?" Stick asks harshly. Good. Harsh is good, it means she's finally managed to anger him.

"Because he got attached," Elektra replies. She knows the story. Stick doesn't do attachments. "And you don't approve of that."

Stick inclines his head in a move that is neither a nod nor a shake. Something in between, half a denial, half an assent. "He would have been a replacement. I didn't want a replacement," he says instead, as if it's supposed to clear everything up. "I could never forget you, _koibito_."

She doesn't know what happens then, but the air in Matthew's apartment gets thinner and it's suddenly hard to breathe. She takes air in big gulps and presses a hand to her chest. She knows she's making a spectacle out of herself, knows Stick can tell. She doesn't care. She needs to get out. She needs to--She needs...

She escapes to Matthew's roof.

 

**10.**

When she is twelve, she kills a man for the first time. It's partially self-defence and partially a deeply rooted desire to know if she can. Stick can. He knows how to kill, does it quietly and effortlessly. And Elektra, Elektra wants to be like him.

When she is twelve, she kills a man. Stick kills one in return, in order to protect her. He's already killed dozens in her name – she's not supposed to know that, but she does – but they were never friends, they weren't people they knew, they weren't people they trusted, they weren't people who taught her how to write and told her stories.

"Gotta go," Stick says quietly, in that uncharacteristically soft tone of his that's never fitted him. Once more she must appear like a spooked animal to him if he's trying to gentle her.

Stick holds out his hand and Elektra takes it, slipping her small one into his, bigger and calloused. Stick squeezes hard and Elektra decides to take that as reassurance. "Keep quiet, _musume_ , we mustn't alert anyone," Stick whispers and then proceeds to murmur unhelpful platitudes about how it'll be fine, how they'll get out of there and never return.

Elektra liked this place. She's not keen on adding yet another address to the list of places she cannot go back to.

They spend the next five months running, bouncing from one of Stick's safe houses to another, and it's possibly the best time of Elektra's life. She's never travelled outside of Japan before and now she's globetrotting. They live in the constant fear of being found, and Stick is convinced the Chaste is going to kill them on sight, yet Elektra makes the most of it. She can't help it – she's a kid on an adventure. 

They stay in Mexico the longest, hiding in plain sight as Ray Connor and his daughter Ellie. Elektra picks up Spanish much quicker than English and sometimes finds herself translating simple slogans for Stick, just to amuse him. He never laughs, exactly, but the corners of his mouth twitch every time and Elektra knows by now that it means he finds it funny, but pretends he doesn't for the sake of his reputation.

It's perfect, their little outcast life on the run.

By the end of their sixth week in Mexico, Elektra convinces herself they're going to stay that way forever.

By the end of their seventh, Stick tells her they're heading to New York.

 

**29.**

She doesn't know how long she's been standing there, contemplating the edge of Matthew's rooftop, trying to decipher what she feels, for Stick, for Matthew, how she feels about all the revelations, all the lies, all the betrayals. She knows she's feeling something, which is a damn good deal better than what the Chaste has always led her to believe the Black Sky capable of.

The Black Sky was supposed to be a monster, an uncontrollable vehicle of mass destruction. Not someone who hurt and who grieved and who loved.

It occurs to her, very briefly, that Stick's always been careful when mentioning the Black Sky around her. She dismisses the thought. He's always been vocal about it with everyone else, though.

She hears him approach. She knows he can make himself pretty silent when he wants to, so she assumes the hard footfalls are for her benefit. Not to startle her. To alert her to his presence.

"Leave me alone, Matthew."

"Stick's downstairs," Matthew says and, throughout all her existential confusion Elektra feels the desire to roll her eyes surface. She must not be in as bad shape as she thought if that still happens. "He's restrained."

She does roll her eyes at that. She knows he is, she was there when he was being tied up. By her, no less. Oh, Matthew. Not the brightest indeed.

He falls silent after that. Elektra almost turns to look at him, but refrains at the last moment. No. No. He's silent. It's not like he knows what to tell her, staring at him will only make it worse.

She wishes she stayed downstairs. At least throwing barbs and cutting remarks at each other is a familiar game to play with Stick. Familiar and safe, the same way Stick's room at the temple used to be, once upon a time. With Matthew she's always felt out of depth.

Which, she thinks, might have been Stick's entire point.

 

**11.**

Stick says nothing as he hands her a dress. It's beautiful, light blue and beige, with embroidered flowers. Elektra's never had a dress before and that's how she knows something's wrong.

They take a cab. Stick tells her in a hushed voice that they're off to visit Hugo and Christina Natchios, a wealthy Greek ambassador and his wife. He explains how he used the last of his New York connections to pose as an employee of an adoption agency, how Elektra is someone the Natchioses have been waiting for years, how this would be her own safe house, her own place to hide. She thinks his voice breaks when he tells her she will get to grow up without the threat of anyone finding her. She might be wrong. It might not be his voice breaking but her heart.

The Natchioses want to have a daughter and Elektra is an orphan, or that's what she thinks and has been told all her life. The ambassador and his wife look nice enough and already have a son, a boy slightly older than Elektra whose whole face lights up when he sees her. They're good people, she knows that. But she also knows – on a very elemental level, deep in her heart, deeper even than the hurt of Stick leaving has lodged itself and she knows will pester because she'll let it – that the Natchioses will never have her.

Stick gets annoyed when she tells him as much.

But for her it's not a stubborn whim of a twelve-year-old. For Elektra it's a fact, an obvious truth, as real and as fundamental as gravity. They'll never have her. And she'll never have them because she neither needs nor wants them. She wants Stick. She wants to stay with him and run forever if that's what it takes.

"Elektra," Christina Natchios says with a big smile, "it's so nice to finally meet you. I'm Christina. Or you can call me m--"

Christina stops when her husband's hand lands on her shoulder. Her face reddens under an embarrassed blush and Elektra wonders, briefly, what was it that she was stopped from saying. Perhaps that Elektra should call her "mum".

Elektra's mother tainted her. Maybe that's why Stick left. Maybe she was too wrong.

Christina's hand cups Elektra's cheek and her thumb strokes it gently. Christina's eyes are full of wonder and happiness, as if Stick was right and she's been waiting for Elektra her whole life. Hugo and his son wear the same expressions of awe and happiness in equal parts. Good. At least it's not awe and fear.

Elektra wants to run. She wants to run out of this too big house and towards the gate, run after Stick and beg him to come back for her, not to leave her here alone.

 _Suck it up, shōjo_ , she imagines him saying. Stay here with them. Observe them and their ways. Learn all you can. All useful skills. That's the mission. Stick gave her a mission and she'll be damned if she lets him down.

She smiles as sweetly as she can. Her cheeks hurt. "Hi, Christina."

 

**12.**

"You know, the folks are throwing a party next week," Orestez says in lieu of a greeting as he casually leans against the doorframe of Elektra's room.

Elektra's room. She's had a room before, the dark one with no windows, and the one at the temple, of course. But. This was her _room_ , her room in an actual house, her room filled with furniture she's picked, clothes she's picked, toys she was given. And there were pictures there as well, of her and Christina shopping, her and Hugo cooking, her and Orestez in the park, her and Orestez playing with the family dog, her and Orestez that one time he took her to the beach. Elektra's never had a brother before, but if this is what it's like to have one, she's glad for him.

She'd still trade him for Stick in a heartbeat, but that urge is getting weaker and weaker every day. Perhaps one day it'll be Elektra who forgets.

"A party?" she asks.

"Yeah." Orestez grins and lets himself into her room. He throws himself onto her bed with such a force that she bounces up. "And official 'welcome to the family' party, all for you."

Elektra frowns. "I don't need a party."

Orestez nudges her in the side. "Get used to it. The Natchioses are well-known among the New York high society for their splendid parties." He nudges her again and Elektra fights the urge to punch him. She's not supposed to do that. "Do you know how to dance?"

She doesn't. That was never a skill that was deemed important. But, "Fighting is like dancing," she tells her brother.

It's Orestez's turn to frown. He props his head on his hand and looks at her, inquiry in his eyes and on his lips. "Do you know how to fight?"

She's not supposed to. She's not supposed to fight and she's not supposed to know how to do it, so she shakes her head 'no'. "It's just something I heard once," she says and tries not to think of Stick.

"Uh-huh." Orestez sounds unconvinced, but lets it go. He gets off her bed and extends a hand. "Then you're in luck because Mother's made me attend dancing lessons since I was five. Come on, El, I'll teach you."

 

**13.**

One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, turn. Stick has taught her that every fighting style is governed by different rules. Different tempos to each, certain moves that you could and couldn't do, steps to remember and repeat, and a partner to be aware of.

Elektra flows across the ballroom of the Natchioses' mansion first with Hugo, then with Orestez. Her blue ballgown twirls as she does, and she never once missteps, never once falls out of rhythm. She switches sides in tune with the string quartet's music, swaps partners, follows all the rules and repeats all the steps without hiccup. _Just like fighting_ , she repeats like a mantra. In a fight, every tiny mistake would mean injury and could mean death. Here any mistake could mean a good laugh and hurt toes, nothing more. She decides to think of it as yet another form of fighting, not just an afternoon activity that Christina is fond of. A higher threat level means better attention to detail. She won't make a mistake if her life depends on it.

Perhaps her life does depend on it. This is her mission, after all.

 

**14.**

She does make a mistake, but a different one from what she feared.

One day at school, she breaks a boy's nose with a well-placed kick.

Christina is, surprisingly, not angry. She picks her up from school and drives her home, where she bursts into tears and hugs Elektra tighter than ever before. It takes her almost half an hour to pull herself together, and when she does, she places kisses all over Elektra's scrunched up face and tells her how sorry she is about Elektra's rough childhood in Thailand, how proud she is of her for surviving and how glad that Elektra is finally home with them, where she belongs. Elektra is also proud she survived, but disagrees with the latter. She doesn't voice that thought, electing to keep it to herself.

Orestez almost cannot contain his giddiness when he gets home. "It was so badass, mum," he tells Christina, full of excitement and pride. "She broke his nose with a kick, just like some Bruce Lee shit."

"Language, Orest."

"And the kid totally deserved, too," Orestez carries on, happily ignoring his mother. "Was bullying a girl from El's school. So El walked up to him, all zen, and told him to shut it. The kid said 'no' and told her to get lost, so El then nodded and turned to leave. And everyone thought that'd be the end, but then she turns and flattens him with that awesome kick. Seriously, El," he turns his attention to Elektra, "where did you learn that stuff?"

Before Elektra has a chance to come up with a sufficiently good answer, Christina smacks Orestez on the head. "You know what the agency told us," she hisses, "there's no need to make Elektra relive that."

Elektra has no idea what sort of a fake story Stick and his contact cooked up, but she knows that it involved Thailand, probably some sort of abuse, and was enough to bring Christina to tears. Which is saying a lot because Elektra's mother is not one to cry easily.

"I think Master Eko would love to meet her," Orestez says suddenly. Elektra's head snaps up. She knows Master Eko is Orestez's capoeira teacher, lessons which Hugo insisted on and Orestez didn't hate enough to try and get out of. "It'd be fun. A little brother-sister thing."

"Orestez," Christina says, her tone carrying a hint of a warning. A hint that Orestez wouldn't notice, Elektra new. Not the sharpest one, her brother.

"Mother," she says, startling Christina, "please. I'd love to train with Orest."

Christina's face softens when she looks at Elektra, like it always does. When she looks at her, she sees a fragile girl of almost fourteen, someone precious and delicate who ought to be protected and nurtured. Someone who is like a flower, or like a princess. A little girl.

She doesn't know her little girl once slit a man's throat to see if she could.

"Darling." Christina hesitates and that's when Elektra knows she has her. She's never called Christina "mother" before, she gambled that the pleasure of hearing that would buy her anything she wanted, and she won. She knows she won. Christina might not have said 'yes' yet, but she will. "Are you sure..."

"Yes, mother." Elektra smiles. "It'll be fun."

 

**15.**

She surpasses all of Master Eko's expectations and quickly proves herself a skilled fighter. She hopes Stick would have been proud of her, had he stuck around long enough to see her rise and triumph like this.

She takes up ballet to divert her parents' attention from just how good she is at hurting other people.

 

 **30.**

She makes him a sandwich. White bread, ham, two slices of cheese, just the way he likes it, just the way he's always liked it, even back in Mexico when she made him breakfast every day.

"How does it feel," she asks, "knowing that the kids you've trained are going to fight your war for you? While you're sitting here."

"Biggest mistake of your life, child," he says and has the tenacity to sound disapproving.

"Maybe," Elektra answers. Who does Stick think he is? He's not her father. Her real father she's never known and her adoptive father is long dead and gone. Stick never claimed that title when he could and she doesn't want him to do so now. She's over that. "But it'll be my mistake because this is my life." 

He wants to say more. She knows that, can read that in the way he sniffs and grimaces in a barely-there way. She both hates and delights in the fact that there are still some aspects of him that she can read, even after all these years of strained contact and passing messages across. He wants to say more and she's ready to hear it, maybe she wasn't before, when Matthew went to the pharmacy, but she is now, after the rooftop and after the visit to that friend of Matthew's. She's made her choice, she's going to fight this war and she's going to win, triumph in a way Stick's never foreseen.

She wants him to tell her that she'll get herself killed. She wants him to tell her that she isn't ready. She wants him to tell her that he doesn't want to see her hurt. As if. As if ever.

Stick says nothing, in the end, because Matthew leaves the bathroom. And then Franklin calls and Matthew leaves, and Stick doesn't seem to be in the mood for talking anymore.

 

**16.**

"You look beautiful," Orestez says as he finishes tying up her dress. "Bloody perfect. No one's sister is as beautiful and deadly kickass as mine."

"Flatterer," Elektra teases. She puts on her gloves and sighs at her reflection in the mirror. "Honestly, I'd rather be at the capoeira championship with you."

"I know, I know." Orestez wraps his arms around her waist and hooks his chin over her shoulder. "But you've already broken mum's heart when you swapped ballet for Muay Tai. At least let her live the dream of sending her daughter to the debutante ball."

"If only everyone had such simple dreams."

"Mhm. True. But hey – at least we're in this together."

Elektra glances at him in the mirror and squints. Uh-oh. He's up to something. "You're going to the championships."

Orestez grins. "I was going to, but then I heard who was assigned as your escort and let me tell you, I know the guy, he's the worst. I'd never let my baby sister go to the ball with _him_. Do you know for how many years I've asked Santa for you? I'm not risking my hard-earned sibling. _I'm_ escorting you."

Elektra laughs and reaches back to squeeze Orestez's nose. He pats her hand away and spins her around. Her white gown twirls like a princess dress their mother is so fond of. 

"And after the horrible ball..."

"And after the horrible ball," Orestez picks up, "you're ditching your loving family for an all-girls getaway to Paris before you start college in the autumn. Shame on you, El."

"I have no intention of spending yet another New Year's Eve listening to Aunt Irene. It's the twenty-first century, I don't need to be married before I reach twenty."

"She's a bad Greek stereotype, true," Orestez admits. "The cruise around the Aegean Sea on our luxurious yacht will be so empty and sad without you there, El."

"Right." Elektra turns back to the mirror. "Now help me out. Diamonds or pearls?"

 

**17.**

They all move in a straight line, like ducks in a row, before stopping. The dancers circle around, with hands kept at eye-level, and then they move once more in this careful yet so very graceful procession.

"Not long now," Orestez says. Elektra hopes he's right.

She notices that all the escorts stop, so she squeezes her brother's hand to get his attention. He's as distracted and bored as she is. He would have missed his cue and she couldn't allow that to happen. If this were a fight and not merely an inconsequential dance, his mistake could have cost him his life. 

The debutantes circle around their partners before returning to their positions. Orestez quickly changes his right-handed grip on Elektra's hand for a left-handed one, putting his right arm behind her back protectively.

"I hate this," Elektra whispers.

"Not long now," Orestez repeats. "And then we can leave."

Elektra clings to that assurance like a lifeline.

 

**18.**

The news reach her still in Paris, in the giant exclusive hotel suite that she and Sunset have been renting. It's early in the morning – they were just about to order breakfast – when her phone rings and the person on the other side of the connection introduces themselves as Kostas Thomaidis, the Greek ambassador to France.

Elektra is not Greek, of course – she's not really anything, who knows where she came from originally, and anyway, everything else that she is is what Stick made her – but being the, albeit adopted, daughter of the Greek ambassador to the US has bigger and smaller perks. A Greek passport is certainly one of the less significant ones.

Elektra doesn't need a passport or a citizenship. She's spend the first twelve years of her life without one and she can disappear at will. She doesn't _need_ it, but it is useful to have it. She thinks that's why Stick has kept his, a dirty little secret, but there.

Her voice is flat when she says, "Thank you." She presses her phone to her mouth and stands still for good five minutes, hoping against reason that it's all a horrible nightmare and that she'll wake up soon.

Of course, it's not a nightmare. She doesn't know why she expected otherwise, if only for a brief moment. She's Elektra. Death dances at her feet.

She silently crosses their apartment and turns on the TV. The French media have just broke the news of the attack on a Greek ambassador's yacht in the Aegean, a vicious affair that left four out of the yacht's five passengers dead.

"Elektra..." Sunset trails off when the picture of Christina Natchios' dead and charred body briefly flashes on the TV screen. "I'm so sorry."

She's not, Elektra knows. Sunset is incapable of any higher feelings, which might be the reason why Elektra's always found it easy to relate to her. Being dead inside suits her just fine right now. It'll make hunting those responsible much easier.

 

**19.**

A pilot in Buenos Aires, a lawyer in Berlin, and that bloody mess in Morocco: six people dead, six useless pieces of shit who attacked and shot up her family on their holiday. The first two are swift affairs – she comes in and kills the men. But Morocco, ah. Elektra takes her pleasure killing the lowlifes in Morocco. She makes it long and painful, for each of them. The one who was steering the boat that attacked her father's _Oceanid_. The one who failed to kill her uncle. The one who stained her aunt's yellow dress red. The one who shot right through her father's throat. The one who put six bullets into her brother.

"Mercy," begs the last one, the one who put a bullet in her mother's head and then did a shoddy job of burning the yacht.

"There is no mercy," Elektra hisses at him. "I am Elektra Natchios. Not even the stars are safe in the sky."

When she's done – when all six bodies are fitted into the boot of a rented Maserati and the Maserati itself has been driven off a cliff – Elektra sags down onto the dusty road and wraps her arms around her. She's tired. She's so damn tired and she feels so _empty_. There's nothing left, nothing left for her to do, no one left to kill. For the past seven months she's been fueled by her desire to punish the people who took her family from her, to kill them all the way they killed Aunt Irene and father, and Orestez, and mother.

And now there's no one left and she feels hollow inside.

She draws her knees up and hides her face in them.

For the first time in years she wishes Stick was here to tell her to get it together.

 

**31.**

"I wish you weren't doing this," Stick says into the emptiness of Matthew's apartment.

Elektra emerges from Matthew's bedroom, clad in her new costume, and clicks her tongue. "This is progress," she notes. "You've finally accepted that I _am_ doing this."

"Ellie," he says curtly, tone full of reproach. "Don't be stupid. You know the Hand. You can't _win_ against the Hand."

"So you say." Elektra glances at the sandwich she's made. What was she thinking. Untying Stick is out of the question and she's not about to feed him. What a waste. "And you only say that because you've never _tried_."

"Of course I've tried," he snaps. "Who do you think let you--"

He stops himself. Elektra arches a brow and beckons him to continue. "Let me what, now? What kind of an amusing story are you going to make up now?"

Stick shakes his head. "You ain't gonna listen anyway," he murmurs, more to himself than to Elektra. To her, he says, "I don't want you to die for no reason. I _care_."

"You've never cared for anyone in your entire life, old man. You only care for your plans and your schemes and your machinations. _Matthew_ cares about me. And he thinks we can win."

"That's because Matty's an idiot who always, _always_ underestimates his rivals. Ellie, you're better than that."

Elektra's response never comes. Matthew bursts into the apartment and immediately heads for the roof, not sparing a single glance in Elektra's and Stick's directions.

"Matthew." Elektra's voice is enough to make him stop, but not enough to make him turn and face her. "Matthew, what's wrong."

"They've taken them. The Hand, they've taken people I've helped. They've taken Kar--" 

Elektra can see his jaw work, he's clenching his teeth no doubt, and then he turns his head slightly, as if listening for something beyond her. Elektra startles when Matthew drives his fist into the wall with a strained whine.

"Matthew!" she calls again, but this time he moves, heading up the stairs.

Elektra glances at Stick. His lips are pressed tight and he's shaking his head, imperceptibly, left to right. A tiny 'no'. "Ellie," he says, "please don't do this."

Elektra wraps her coat tighter around her and heads up after Matthew.

 

**20.**

She remembers the smell of chicken.

A rundown restaurant, where a man she's never seen before sits down at her table and passes her a folded piece of paper.

"Stick wants to know if you're looking for a job," the man tells her and Elektra's heart starts beating faster in anticipation.

It's the first real thing she's felt since the day her family died.

"I might be," she replies, but the man is already gone.

 

**32.**

"Can you isolate Nobu?"

Matthew shakes his head. "No."

Damn. "We can't move until we're sure he's here." That's the mission. Kill Nobu. Get rid of him, get rid of the Hand. Defeat them and win. End this, the way Stick never could. _And the disciple surpasses the teacher._

Oh, but Matthew, the sweet, sweet idiot Matthew. "We have to do something before these people get hurt."

He truly doesn't get it. "I'm not here for them," Elektra says, a tad sharper than she first intended, but. He doesn't get it. That's not the mission. That's not why they're here. "I came to take down Nobu and you said you'd help."

He tries to placate her. He tries to appeal to her. He tries to reason, he tries to use his clever words to convince her he's right. He's not right, he's wrong and he chose the worst time to be wrong. Twenty people is nothing compared to what the Hand could do if they had the Black Sky – her, if they had _her_ – with them.

She tries to tell him that, but all she manages is to come across as heartless.

She's not heartless. It's that she's learnt early on that too much heart is a problem.

"You stay here. I got work to do."

_Damn._

She wishes Stick were here.

 

**21.**

She was supposed to start college the year her parents died. Had everything ready, all the applications were sent out, references collected, money saved up. Elektra Natchios, a psychology student at Columbia University. It was a nice fairytale the way Elektra Natchios, the daughter of a Greek ambassador was.

Stick's liaison Flame kept tight-lipped about the extent of the assignment past the bare minimum she had to know: get it, charm the boy, convince him to join her, leave. It all seemed simple and non-violent and overall peaceful, a mission unbefitting her skillset and area of expertise. She almost couldn't believe it was Stick who sent Flame.

The old bastard himself hasn't shown his face yet. And good. Elektra was tempted to put a knife in his eye socket. 

She did her homework first. Matthew Murdock, supposedly an orphan, blind, first year law student at Columbia, undergrad done at NYU. Bookish type, literally one friend, never seen anywhere except for the lecture hall, the library, and his dorm room. No notable interests, no notable connections, a rigid moral backbone, penniless. Handsome, charming when he wanted to be, awkward a lot of the time. A do-gooder. Boring, overall.

She had no idea what could possibly interest Stick in the guy.

She chose her timing precisely. A faculty party that she's heard a bunch of law students wanted to crash. A faculty party that she – Elektra Natchios, an ambassadorial daughter, a heiress and a sponsor of this fine scholarly establishment – could easily obtain an invitation to.

All she had to do was wait there for an opportune moment.

The moment comes and then passes her by. "He's with me," she says and the security guard immediately steps aside, muttering his apologies. Matthew Murdock looks confused.

Elektra smirks and takes a sip of her drink.

 

**33.**

She joins him inside.

"I got bored," she explains and he smiles.

It's somewhat true. Standing outside in the cold _was_ boring, but that wasn't the reason. This was her life, as she told Stick. It was her life and these were all her mistakes to make and then regret. Matthew thought she could be good, that she could be better. Maybe this was _better_ : making mistakes and paying for them, being stupid, _caring_. All the things Stick warned her about.

All the things he denounced.

Two ninjas enter the room. Elektra pulls up her mask and they get to work.

 

**22.**

They meet in an off-campus café. As a place for their first meeting in over ten years, it's a little anticlimactic.

"Stick," she greets him when he approaches her table. Her hands are already being warmed by a mug full of latte.

She's not bitter anymore. She hasn't forgotten, him or anything else, but she's not bitter. Most days she finds it hard to be anything.

" _Shōjo_." 

Elektra rolls her eyes. "This applies to me even less than the last time you've said that to me."

"You're now as much of a stranger to me as you were the last time I've said that to you." Touché. "How's it going with Matty?"

Matty. Hmm. "He reminds me of you," Elektra tells him and is surprised to find that she means it. Some of Matthew's mannerism, the way he moves, the way he uses his cane, the way he sometimes cocks his head to the side and concentrates, as if he could hear things far beyond the then and there. They remind her of Stick.

Those are some of her favourite things about Matthew, too. 

Freud would have a field day.

Stick shifts in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. He clears his throat. "He was my student," he tells her, quickly, so quickly that the words seem to bleed into one another. Hewasmystudent. Hew'sm'studnt.

Of course. That makes sense. Would explain the things she finds endearing about him, would explain why she sometimes feels like there's a barely contained energy thrumming under Matthew's skin, ready to lash out at any moment. Would explain why Stick is so damn interested in Matthew.

"Briefly," Stick carries on. "I helped out with his senses. He's--he has issues."

Her grip on the mug full of steaming coffee tightens. "So he was my replacement."

Something akin to hurt flashes across Stick's face, but it's gone before she has a chance to explore it, to prod and poke and question. It's possible she imagined it. "Ellie, no. It--"

"Save it," she says, waving her hand. "I don't care."

The saddest thing is that, despite everything she's seen and everything she's learnt, she does care.

 

**23.**

Franklin drops onto the seat in front of her and glares at her angrily. He has his arms crossed over his chest and the fingers of his left hand are tapping out a rhythm that she can't quite place.

"Yes?" she asks, as politely as possible. She's not fond of Franklin – and he's even less fond of her – but they maintain a precarious peace between them for Matthew's sake. He doesn't trust her, he doesn't trust her at all, and she feels almost proud of his instincts. He _knows_ danger. This one will survive, she thinks. This one will survive and Matthew won't because his self-preservation instinct is non-existent.

"You're bad for him," Franklin says.

Ah. Sure she is. That's the point. "Really, Franklin," she says sweetly, "you need to find a new tune. We only went dancing. A party? You might have heard about that."

"I have. That's the problem." He takes a deep breath. His fingers cease their tapping. "Someone almost _died_ there."

"Happens. You know us, upper society kids. All those drugs mixing with alcohol..."

He points a finger at her with a triumphant expression, in a 'yes, that, exactly' fashion. " _Precisely_. And you're dragging Matt into that. Do you even know what's been happening to him?"

"He's been out, having fun," Elektra supplies. "Possibly for the first time in his life. You can't begrudge him that."

"I'm not, in principle. But he hasn't been to a single lecture in weeks. He's failing his classes. He might have to repeat the year."

"Happens to the best of us." 

"He's gonna lose his scholarship."

"I have plenty of money." 

"He might even get kicked out." Elektra raises a brow, silently asking 'and?'. Franklin huffs angrily. "And on top of that, I had to pick him up from a police station last week. A _police station_. You're ruining him, Elektra."

"Depends on one's point of view. For you it's ruining, for me it's setting him free."

"Elektra, please." She grimaces. While she's not fond of Franklin, she respects him and his instincts and his devotion. She doesn't like to hear him beg. "You're supposed to care about him. Not as a person you want him to be, but as a person _he_ wants to be."

Matthew is of no use to her, to Stick and the Chaste as a person he wants to be. He needs to want to be the person they want him to be and it's her job to show him that. That's her mission.

"I do care about him." She means that. "I'll talk to him, alright? At the weekend."

She has a surprise planned for him for the weekend. A scumbag surprise that deserves every bit of torture they'll inflict upon him.

Franklin nods, full of gratitude, and Elektra feels sick for a moment. "That's all I'm asking."

 

**34.**

"I'm not gonna lie to you," Matthew says, her sweet, sweet idiot who's never lied to her. "There's a lot more coming."

She doesn't doubt that. More of them, many, many more. Disposable warrior whom you can later simply bring back to life, less and less human with every time, but what does it matter, if you'll only end up sending them to die again.

They talk about death. There's still so much Matthew doesn't know about the Hand, about their dark rituals, about their power to bring him back whenever they want, just for the pleasure of torturing him some more.

She wishes she had the time to tell him all of their secrets.

They head for the roof. Many, too many to count, all the Hand's undead henchmen, with weapons far better than her two sai and his one silly stick.

This is what a last stand feels like, Elektra thinks. The crushing realisation that this is it, that there will be no more chances, no more days. That no matter what they do, they're going to fail. That there is no winning against the Hand here.

Stick's tried to explain it to her, once. She didn't want to believe him. She believes him now.

"Even if we survive," she tells Matthew and despair tugs at the remaining strings of her heart, "we may not see each other again."

He surprises her with his proposal. It's not a _proposal_ proposal, just an idea. Say we survive. Say we walk out of here and say we're free to choose. Say I choose you. Say I choose you the way I didn't back at uni. Wherever you run, I run with you.

She's never had anyone who stayed. Not even Stick stayed; Stick would just come and go as he pleased. But Matthew, Matthew was offering to stay.

"But I... I do know that I'm free with you. Like with no one else."

He thinks he's free. 

She thinks she's broken him.

She nods, a small smile playing on her lips. Now this is a good reason to stay alive. "Let's get out of here."

 

**24.**

"You've abandoned your mission."

Elektra closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She's not going to punch him. She's not going to throw him off the roof. She's not going to slit his throat. He's her sensei. He's the closest thing to a father she has left.

"It was pointless," she says because it sounds better than 'hopeless'. It sounds better than 'failure'. "He wasn't going to see."

It's more than that. Matthew wasn't going to name the darkness inside him, the darkness that called to Elektra and that she wanted to draw out, bring to the surface. He wasn't going to accept it.

"So you just gave up?"

"Postponed," Elektra shoots back. She never gives up. She doesn't leave missions incomplete. She'll try again. Maybe not today and maybe not tomorrow, but one day. When Matthew's ready.

Stick sighs and grimaces. She thinks his expression is something between sadness and disappointment.

"You should have stayed in New York, Ellie."

"But I didn't". There were too many ghosts in New York, people dead and gone who would have haunted her every step. "I heard you've been busy. Hunting and killing kids worldwide? That's a new low for you."

"They were all Black Skies."

Elektra blinks, surprised, and turns to face him proper. "There's more than one?"

"Don't be an idiot, Ellie," Stick admonishes. "There can be only one Black Sky. It'll be the one Hand finally activates. But there are more than one candidate, yes."

"So you've been eliminating them one by one."

Stick hums in reply. "If one is activated, all the other candidates die. And there can only be one."

"And if there are none, none is activated," Elektra finishes. "That's rather brilliant. Ruthless, but brilliant. Need help?"

"Help's always needed," Stick says, because admitting that _he_ might need help is a statement that will never make it past his throat. "War's coming, Ellie."

"I know." She tilts her face up to feel the wind better. "It's been coming for as long as I remember."

The forever dance of the warring spirits.

 

**35.**

She didn't notice it was that cold in Hell's Kitchen.

"I know... I know now... what it feels... to be good."

 

**1. _bis_**

He makes his way up the roof. He already knows what happened, he feels it deep in his bones, but he needs to be _sure_. He needs to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his little girl is gone, gone because he failed to protect her and convince her to let this go.

Matty's kneeling on the roof, head bowed over a body. It's only one of dozens that litter the roof, but he knows. This is the one.

"Where's Ellie?" he asks because he's a bastard, because he wants Matt to sputter and hurt, and he wants Matt's voice to break and he wants to break Matt's face.

Matt cradles Elektra's body close. "Stick," he whispers, desolate, and _good_. It's his fault. He talked her into this, it's his damn fault. "She--I couldn't--Nobu--"

Nobu. The fucking bastard. Stick feels both vindicated by the fact that Nobu's dead, finally and truly, no coming back with no head, and angered by the fact that he won't get to kill Nobu again and again. Being dead forever is too light a punishment for what he did.

Stick pushes at Matt's shoulder until Matt relents and lets go of Elektra's body. It's Stick who kneels, then, and it's Stick who picks her up as if she were no bigger than a six-year-old.

"It'll be fine, _musume_ ," he whispers in Japanese. This isn't meant for Matty's ears. He can sense Matt twitch, no doubt miffed by being purposefully left out, no doubt curious about what Stick's saying. He doesn't ask. He's learning. "We'll fix this."

"Stick," Matt says. "Stick, we need--"

"She needs to be buried," Stick tells him in a tone of voice that invites no argument. "Her family has a tomb here in New York. I know a guy."

Matt nods mutely. He's hurt and he's probably in shock, but that's not Stick's problem. His decisions, his mistakes, his fault. Stick has bigger problems. Nobu might be gone, but the Hand still pesters the city. It's never going to give up. And with Elektra dead, they will either look for a new child or...

Elektra was one of the few candidates who grew to adulthood. She was a trained fighter, she danced across battlefields in ways that astonished everyone. Elektra was perfect.

There's no way the Hand would just let her go.

"We'll fix this," he repeats. If there's one thing you can rely on, it's the Hand's predictability. "You'll see, _musume_ , we'll get it all fixed."

 

**0.**

The Demon King rejoices as the Legless Dancer resumes her dance.

**Author's Note:**

> I took some liberties with comics!lore here and there. And vented my internal frustration at the apparent idiocy of Stick at the end of 2x13. He knew the Hand wanted Elektra! Then why did he. Leave. Her body. In the ground. Like that! I like to believe Stick plans everything at least seven steps in advance.
> 
> And look! Words!
> 
>  _sābanto_ [jap.] - servant  
>  _gaijin_ [jap.] - foreigner  
>  _kuso yarō_ [jap. - a bastard (according to my sources)  
>  _koibito_ [jap.] - sweetheart  
>  _shōjo_ [jap.] - little girl  
>  _matsuri_ [jap.] - a summer festival  
>  _sensei_ [jap.] - teacher  
>  _kami_ [jap.] - spirits worshipped in the Shinto religion  
>  _shinkai_ [jap.] - the realm the kami inhabit  
>  _kamaitachi_ [jap.] - supernatural monsters supposedly known for cutting off people's legs  
>  _otōsan_ [jap.] - father  
>  _musume_ [jap.] - daughter


End file.
